


michael (archangel)

by Unuora



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Abduction, Angst, Heaven, M/M, Post-Canon, Religious Conflict, a bit of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-17 02:08:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21046556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unuora/pseuds/Unuora
Summary: Michael is a good angel. (It's what she keeps telling herself.)Heaven, oh, Heaven is perfect. It cannot handle a fracture like this.(But when Michael looks upon them she thinks questions she's not supposed to have.)





	michael (archangel)

**Author's Note:**

> i have no idea what to tag this as i'm sorry lmao

Everything in Heaven is perfect.

(That’s what Michael used to think.)

It’s not that Michael doubts any of Heaven’s motives (she doesn’t) or question God (she’d never) it’s just that some things are not turning out the way they’re expected to.

“No apocalypse, a human antichrist, a defecting angel,” Gabriel is listing off. He’s worked himself up into quite a state now that there’s millions of angels waiting to step on a battlefield that doesn’t exist. “No _Plan_.”

But the angels don’t put up a fight about putting away their armor. Michael didn’t really expect they would. A _riot_ was never the concern. It’s the doubts. It’s the questions. It’s the angels knocking at the archangel’s office with genuine concern, asking, “What’s happening? What are we meant to do?” Turning them away only does so much.

Heaven, oh, Heaven is perfect. It cannot handle a fracture like this.

(It’s not just the warrior angels who are having doubts.)

_It’s that damned Aziraphale’s fault_, she thinks, more than once, more than a thousand times. No one should’ve heard the stories about Aziraphale breathing hellfire at their facsimile of a trial, but the word spread. It was like seconds before angels were whispering to each other, hidden in Heaven’s open corridors, trying to spread illicit gossip in the shade of the night.

“Those two,” Gabriel says one day, after Michael had brought up the pictures of Aziraphale and Crowley fraternizing throughout the ages. How long was this going on just under their noses?

“They’re a liability,” Uriel says, calm as ever. Their eyes are like gunmetal, lucid and metallic. “They should be taken care of.”

“They’re dangerous,” Michael says, “You saw Aziraphale at the trial. They could destroy us.”

“Aren’t they already?” Gabriel scoffs bitterly. He walks to the windows of Heaven, back turned to the other angels, scowling down at the expanses below. He is Heaven’s leading protector, save God Herself, with all of Her angels leaning on his shoulders.

“We have an army,” Uriel says. “And our angels need a common enemy.”

(But, oh, this part needed no army.)

They capture Aziraphale first. It was an easy thing. To think he used to be a great general in the celestial war; to think he held the flaming sword of war with pride, once. Now, he sits, unassuming, in his bookshop in Soho. When they come for him, he doesn’t expect it, and has barely any time to resist.

Then they’re back in Heaven, and angels are scrambling to bind Aziraphale down before he can strike back. They’re wary, fingers tentative and scared, like they’re brushing against Death himself. But instead of summoning hellfire, Aziraphale stares, steadfast at the council of archangels lain in front of him.

“Ah, hello,” he says, to the placid stares of all the archangels. “I thought—well, I had assumed when you said _you’ll leave me alone_, that you perhaps meant—”

“No hellfire this time?” Gabriel asks, and Aziraphale gives him a puzzled look before he can stuff it down. “No tricks?”

Aziraphale closes his eyes, almost pained. His lips quirk in a parody of a smile. “No tricks,” he agrees.

Heaven never had a jail. There was never a point of something like that. Heaven was always perfect. (What served as jail was somewhere else.) So, Gabriel creates a cell in Heaven for Aziraphale. A single room with a barred off portion in the endless expanse of white. The first prisoner of Heaven.

“Why not make me Fall, then?” Aziraphale’s calling, the echo of his voice amplifying the anger as the archangels are walking away. “What’s the point of keeping me up here just to keep me in a box?”

“God hasn’t considered you unredeemable,” Uriel says. “We will be keeping it that way.”

“It’s for your own good,” Michael says, and then she closes the door, ignoring Aziraphale as she walks through the vast openness that is Heaven.

It only takes a few days for Crowley to arrive.

He makes it all the way to Aziraphale’s cell, fighting with his way to the top only to be stopped by a lock he hasn’t a hope to break without an archangel’s consent.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale shouts as Sandalphon shoves Crowley to the ground, roughly yanking his arms behind his back. “Don’t hurt him!”

“Well,” Gabriel says, walking in on the scene with ease. He’s unruffled, as if he had been expecting this. As far as Michael knows, he was. “We didn’t even have to try to get the other one. He came right to us.”

Crowley quickly wears himself out struggling, jolting futilely against Sandalphon’s hold. He makes a pathetic picture, reduced to panting on the ground, and Michael coolly contemplates how one of God’s angels had fallen so far. “Fuck you,” he snarls, and Michael raises an eyebrow. “What could you possibly want from him?”

“To keep him out of the picture,” Michael says.

“We are out of your damn picture,” Crowley snarls, and jostles Sandalphon until he shoves Crowley down hard enough to make the breath wheeze out of him. He stops resisting, then, body heaving.

“Stop,” Aziraphale is saying, rattling the door to his cell. “Stop, stop. He’s got nothing to do with Heaven.”

“You’re right,” Gabriel says, staring down at Crowley contemplatively. “We could kill him and be done with it. Be done with the fraternizing, right there.” Michael thinks it might be a joke, but Aziraphale clearly doesn’t agree.

“No!” Aziraphale yells. “Please, just let him go. Heaven’s got no business with demons. You’ve best not aggravate Hell.”

“Beelzebub would be interested in the traitor as well,” Uriel says. “Considering, it seems, they’re not done scheming.”

“Just keep the demon here,” Michael says, diplomatically. “Then we all get what we want.”

“Ah, good thinking, Michael,” Gabriel says, nodding approvingly. “Sandalphon, put him in the cell. And to the rest, there’s a meeting in five!”

And then he was off.

Gabriel left, but Michael didn’t. Perhaps it was because it was her idea, or because she was curious what motivated a demon to climb all the way to Heaven. Regardless, it was Michael who suggested that she stay to watch over Aziraphale and the demon.

“Just in case they get up to something,” Michael says to Uriel.

“They are known to be crafty,” Sandalphon says gruffly, looking down at the demon he had kneeling on the ground, his arms wrenched behind him.

“You just want to get out of Gabriel’s stupid meeting,” Uriel says, flicking their eyes skyward. “I’ll give your excuses.”

They don’t stay to watch Sandalphon toss Crowley into the cell, and Sandalphon doesn’t even look back after closing the barred gate behind him. Before she knows it, Michael’s alone with Aziraphale and his damned demon. The very moment Crowley had been thrown into the cell Aziraphale was at his side, barely a second passing before he’s gathering him in his arms.

(Later that night, Michael will wonder why he didn’t try to make a break for it when Sandalphon’s arms were full, and the door was open.)

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale is saying, over and over, and the demon waves him off. This tutting and fretting continues as Michael conjures a desk to sit at, complete with some backlogged paperwork to catch up on. It’s enough to keep her busy, but all she has to do to see the prisoners is look up, and she can keep an eye on them.

“Lay off, angel,” the demon grouses, shoving Aziraphale’s hand away. If Michael had less dignity, she’d let her eyebrows climb. He talks to an angel like _that_? And Aziraphale _lets_ him?

“You foolish, stupid thing,” Aziraphale says then, and Michael feels bewilderingly more and less alarmed in turn. “You’re hurt, and all because you wanted to play hero.”

“I’m not—of course you’d be ungrateful and if you’d listen to me—”

“I can see the burns, don’t lie. What if they had holy water, and they smote you right out of existence—”

“What was I to think, after I woke up and you were gone without a trace—”

“Will you two,” Michael says, “Please be quiet.” Both of their mouths snap shut with an audible noise.

“I’m sssure you’re enjoying thisss,” Crowley hisses, eyes narrow. “Free entertainment.”

“He’s hurt,” Aziraphale says, almost right over Crowley’s taunting. “Please, can we just—”

“We can’t give you hellfire to heal a demon from holy injuries, Aziraphale,” Michael says, turning a page airily. “I thought you could conjure some yourself.” He doesn’t seem to have anything to say about that. After that, they go quiet. It’s quiet for a long time, long enough for Michael to think that it’s going to stay like that for the rest of the time she watches over them.

But after a long stretch of time they begin to whisper, huddled close enough to touch. Two bracketing shapes so close they’re almost one. Michael can’t hear what they’re saying, but whatever it is they’re so lovingly entwined, bodies trustingly curled into each other.

It makes Michael quietly ill, watching them fold so close together, like within each other holds whole worlds worth of secrets. She watches the tender, delicate way Aziraphale examines Crowley’s wounds, and the way they whisper to one another, little haunted secrets, faces close, making their own privacy. There’s something about it that burns her, so that even when she looks away, she still feels it scalding through her mind.

(This is what turning away from God was worth?)

She spends the hours reminding herself that they betrayed Heaven and Hell. And that Heaven was never enough for Aziraphale. He reached down into Earth and let himself get all entangled in the First Tempter. This demon brought an angel down from Heaven, and it was Aziraphale’s foolishness to let himself fall so far.

When the hours are up Michael stands up, making the desk vanish with a wave of her hand. The suddenness of her movement makes Aziraphale and the demon whirl towards her.

“Sandalphon will be on the next shift,” Michael tells Aziraphale, who is warily watching her.

And she has the full intent of walking away and letting every thought about angels and demons fall away.

Except it doesn’t.

For whatever reason she can’t stop thinking about Aziraphale and that demon. How Aziraphale had begged when Crowley was hurt. How Crowley fought with his life for the chance to free Aziraphale. This was the damned, accursed same who chased each other to the end of the apocalypse.

It was reckless. It was foolish. It was insane.

She had never heard of such a story before. Something so akin to a fairytale; a shining prince in armor, some fated devotion, eschewing the end of the world in order to lie within each other’s arms. It was not the way angels acted. It was unbecoming. That kind of devotion was for God and Her only. She knew it was a lie. It was a trick. But she couldn’t look away.

She loses the brief time she spent away from the cell like sand through her fingers. She can’t help but keep wondering what Aziraphale and Crowley did in their six-thousand-year collusion. Did they fight, as demons and angels ought? Was it the petty bickering she heard before? Did they tempt and be tempted; did they guide one another into God’s light?

What could a demon and an angel possibly have in common to sustain such a strong bond? Did they truly want to bring Heaven down so badly they'd do all that, connive for millennia, die for each other...

(Oh, six thousand years is such a long time.)

She stayed to watch over the prisoners more often, then. The given excuse was that it was good time to multitask. She could do paperwork and do a Heavenly duty at the same time. Gabriel appreciated efficiency. But if Gabriel was suspicious, he didn’t show it. She never met any resistance to how much she stayed.

So she watched.

(And… and okay, sometimes, sometimes she _spies._)

It’s one of those times where they haven’t noticed her yet, skulking just out of sight, just so that she can see and they can’t. She’ll appear to them in a moment and go about her business looking dispassionate and uninterested in anything but Heaven’s paperwork, but for the moment she watches. Perhaps, she had hoped, they'll say something incriminating and she could put this all out of her mind, but it appears that won't be the case. Aziraphale’s got a small collection of books that he seems to be working through at his leisure, probably from Sandalphon. The demon doesn’t seem interested, though. Instead, he’s pacing irritably back and forth their short cell with increasing frustration.

“Oh, sit down already,” Aziraphale sighs. Immediately, Crowley whirls on him.

“They gave you what you wanted,” Crowley hisses, voice eerily low. “I’m not used to being trapped like a rat in a cage.” There’s a delicately omitted _like you_ somewhere in there, and Michael wonders if this is it, if this where he turns against him in the ruins of their failed plan. Yet, somehow, Aziraphale, barely even notes the hostility.

“And the revenge will be all that much sweeter,” Aziraphale says, and despite herself, Michael balks.

“All I asked for was a bloody _stereo_ and Gabriel had to get all—”

“Dear,” Aziraphale cuts off, “You call me old fashioned, but Gabriel has yet to truly acknowledge the lightbulb and besides—”

“What is with you high and mighty angels,” Crowley’s still talking. “He reads fashion magazines, he can google what a stereo is.”

“Besides,” Aziraphale says louder, looking at Crowley some which way that makes him stop his pacing. His voices lowers to a pitch that Michael might not hear from where she’s standing if she weren’t listening so hard. “If he knew what was good for him, he would not give you a stereo.”

“What,” Crowley sputters, “What is that supposed to mean.”

“Your _bebop_ can be rather loud,” Aziraphale says, with a surprising amount of cheek, and Crowley scowls down at him.

“Your _tartan_ is rather loud too, but you don’t see me complaining.”

Whatever Michael is experiencing, she experiences it for several more minutes until Crowley’s sitting on the ground next to Aziraphale.

“Here,” Aziraphale says, handing Crowley a book. “You’ll like this one.”

“I told you I don’t read,” Crowley says petulantly.

“Make an exception, darling.”

Crowley scowls, but does as he’s told. Low and behold, some minutes later he’s snorting into the book, and nudging Aziraphale to point out passages.

The First Tempter. Right. No matter which way she bends it she can’t figure out why one of Lucifer’s demons would sway so easily to stuffy, silly Aziraphale’s requests, to sit with no audience and appease him even when there’s no hope for further colluding. Aziraphale’s lost his clout in Heaven, and they’re both going against Heaven and Hell’s judgement. There can’t be a next step to this demon’s plan, there can’t. Despite how much she watches them she can't seem to find any hint of anything more malicious than their incessant bickering.

When Michael reveals herself Aziraphale and Crowley tense up, going from the fluid geniality to something more hostile, more… afraid.

(There’s a bit of her, just a bit, that hopes maybe this isn’t the kind of game she’s trying to solve.)

She’s just watching. This is what she tells herself. And this is what she tells Gabriel when he asks her why she’s so adamant about watching over the rogue angel and demon.

“Good, good,” Gabriel says, and it would sound dismissive it wasn’t from Gabriel, who is always a bit dismissive. “I think you’re onto something.”

“What are you thinking?” Michael says instead of the fear wrought _am I? _that wants to come out of her chest.

“They’ve been on Earth together for a long time. Lots of time to formulate a grander plan, and it must be discerned,” Gabriel says, with surprising intensity. “I'm leaving it up to you to pressure it out of them.”

“Yes,” Michael says, “I will do that.”

Oh, if only Gabriel knew how hard she had been trying to find that kind of answer. Something easy, something cut and dry, something that goes down easy in a board meeting.

But she will continue to observe them. She’s been a good angel for millennia. She still is. (That’s what she’s telling herself.)

Aziraphale and Crowley must notice that Michael is the only archangel coming to check on them now, but they say nothing. And continue to say nothing, up until the moment she’s kneeling at the door of the cell.

“He’s… The demon, he’s alright, isn’t he?”

“Not by your standards,” Crowley spits, but is stayed by Aziraphale’s hand.

“I meant his injuries. You asked for medical assistance…”

“We had it handled,” Aziraphale says tightly. His expression is inscrutable.

“Good thing, too, because you’re a little late on the matter,” Crowley says, looking smug at Michael’s barely sustained grimace.

“I have a few questions,” Michael says finally. At their stony faces she swallows. “Please.”

“Why, exactly, should we give you anything more?” Aziraphale’s voice is tight with anger. Michael keeps getting distracted with how they’re holding hands, mostly hidden by the angle of their bodies.

“It’s not for the other archangels, I swear it. It’ll be confidential.” Michael says, and is mortified with how a note of pleading is making its way into her voice. “They’re for me.” Aziraphale and Crowley are silent for a moment.

“What could you possibly want to ask us?”

  
“Gabriel,” Michael says, coming up to where he’s dutifully sorting through paperwork. Paperwork, there’s always so much of it. “I have a concern.”

“Alright,” Gabriel says, not looking up. “Make it quick. I’ve got stacks of this shit to sort through.”

“Right. It’s about Aziraphale and his—the demon.”

At that Gabriel does look up. “What about them?” He puts his pen down with an authoritative click. “Did they talk?”

“No,” Michael says, struggling through a minute pause. “I’m not sure we will succeed, either.”

Gabriel laughs, shaking his head. He picks up his pen. “Don’t worry so much, we have our ways.”

She can see him veering back into concentration, so she knows she only has a moment. “I don’t think they are conspiring, Gabriel. I feel they are… refugees.”

“Refugees,” Gabriel says blandly.

“They’re only interested in their love for each other. They have no interest in Heaven or Hell. I feel—”

“Oh, come now, Michael,” Gabriel scolds. “You know Aziraphale. Crafty motherfucker wouldn’t know pure love if it kicked him on the ass. And a demon.”

Gabriel’s still laughing when Michael walks away.

Sure, they’re betrayers. It makes some part of Michael’s heart ache sometimes, just watching them. She can feel their aura of love so strong it’s dizzying. If she was willing to be heretical, to be just as bad as the things she’s accusing them of, she would admit that she once felt that way about God.

(Read: not anymore.)

Isn’t this what God meant for them? To love Her children? And a demon… oh, She must still love them. If it’s all just love, how can it be a sin?

There are places in Heaven that are always empty, always abandoned. (They used to be beautiful, before.) It’s there that she goes to think, and it’s there that she prays to Her, wondering about a world so old that she’s almost forgotten it.

“Metatron,” Michael asks one night. “Is love a sin?”

“No,” he replies, a bare mote of surprise in his voice reveals how close she is to being seen. “Of course not, love is what holds our world together.”

“Right,” Michael says, quiet. “Thank you.”

“What’s it like to love that strongly, Aziraphale?”

Oh, she’ll Fall for this. She’s sure of it. Every step she takes is one more degree towards burning. (But…)

But.

She’s a warrior of justice, she’s a defender of the weak, she’s archangel Michael, chosen to be on the Heavenly council by God Herself. There was a time where she believed in trial before punishment, and she wonders when she forgot about that patience.

She pauses, bare inches from illicitly letting Heaven’s only prisoners free. It’s a crime. It’s justice.

“Tell me I’m doing the right thing,” Michael whispers, leaning shakily against the door of the cell.

“Can’t do,” Crowley says, and when she looks his amber eyes are less malicious in the new light. “No such thing.”

“God trusted us,” Aziraphale says, “God trusts you. Now it’s time to trust in yourself.”

“Yes,” Michael says, laughing a bit, “Trust.” And she turns the key.

“It’s the greatest blessing God has ever given me.”

**Author's Note:**

> this... this is a weird fic. i don't know where it came from. i just had a lot of thoughts about the idea of an angel realizing that crowley and aziraphale weren't maliciously motivated and their love fracturing heaven. and then... this happened.
> 
> thanks for reading, i hope you enjoyed. <3


End file.
